


Picnic

by Chryse



Series: What Did You Think About [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryse/pseuds/Chryse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A warm summer's day. A secluded grove. A great many imaginary penises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picnic

**Author's Note:**

> So I didn't even think I was capable of this, but lo: I have written a burst of random porn. No angst, no whump, no plot twists (no plot, period). See, there aren't any warnings! Happy summer.

“Anything interesting?”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock was looking meditatively at his computer screen. “I’ve a request to look into a situation in Provence.”

“Provence? What, Provence in France?”

“Is there another one?”

“Since when do you get cases in France? Don’t they have detectives?”

“I have an international reputation,” Sherlock informed him.

“Since when?”

“Since today, apparently.” Sherlock looked over at the window and John followed his gaze. It was raining, as it had been for the past week, and uncomfortably chilly for August; it had been a most unpleasant summer. “I don’t know,” Sherlock mused. “The case does look interesting, but I do hate leaving London.”

“Oh, you can’t be serious.” John stood up and pushed the laptop into Sherlock’s chest. “Write them back right now and see how soon we can leave. I’ll start getting packed.”

 

Provence was everything John had hoped. The sun shone every day, Sherlock wore pale linen clothing that mysteriously never wrinkled, their hotel was charming, the food was delectable. There were sunflowers and olive trees and lavender and sun-baked hillsides. The case kept Sherlock happily occupied for nearly a week, and John enjoyed every minute of it—except, of course, for the fact that Sherlock was happily occupied. Every minute.

Sherlock finally cracked the case late one dazzlingly beautiful night, in a moonlit orange grove so fragrant John almost felt drunk from the scent alone. “We’ll have to wait until the bank opens in the morning to prove it to the police, obviously,” Sherlock said as he strode off, oblivious to the romantic enticements of flowers, moonlight, and burbling fountains.

“Okay,” John said, falling in beside him. “It’s a gorgeous night, isn’t it? Since you’ve got this all worked out, maybe we could take a bottle of wine on the terrace, have a drink…you could even check out the bed in our room, it’s very comfortable.”

“Not until we’re finished,” Sherlock said severely, so John sighed, took a cold shower, and went to bed alone.

Next day Sherlock wrapped everything up in his usual razzle-dazzle style, leaving John to accept their client’s grateful thanks and large cheque. “We’d best hurry if we’re going to catch the afternoon train,” he said to Sherlock after catching him up on the tiny village’s main street.

“Oh, we’re not leaving until tomorrow,” Sherlock said. “I worked it all out with the hotelier this morning whilst you were dawdling over breakfast. We’re going on a picnic.”

John stared. “What?”

Sherlock sighed. “You heard me.”

“Sherlock Holmes. I have been with you in some of the most beautiful countryside imaginable, and you’ve never paid any of it the slightest notice. Nor have you ever shown any desire to take a blanket outdoors, sit down, eat a meal, and bask in your surroundings. What are you up to?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s still raining in London.”

And that was that. John was still suspicious, but he was too delighted to be staying in France an extra day to worry about it too much, and a picnic sounded marvelous. Sure enough, back at their hotel the hotelier’s wife handed John a large soft-sided hamper with a lot of gesturing and a long stream of French, which Sherlock did not translate because he was busy discussing something with the hotelier. Their destination, John assumed, as he seemed to be sketching a map on a piece of paper. Probably the local graveyard. Some legendary murderer was buried there, and John was going to be expected to eat lunch on his grave. He sighed.

The hotelier said, “ _Bon,”_ clapped Sherlock on the back, handed him a blanket rolled up and fastened with a strap, and winked. Sherlock slung the blanket over his shoulder and strolled off.

“Where are we going then?” John said, struggling to keep up; the hamper was heavier than it looked.

“You’ll see.”

They walked out along the main road, through fields of fragrant lavender, turned onto a side road that climbed up a low hill, and then onto a smaller side road. John was beginning to get seriously hot and sweaty when Sherlock said, “There,” in a pleased voice and turned off onto a path between two fields. A short distance from the road the shade from a little olive grove beckoned invitingly.

John thumped down the hamper and sank onto a bench to admire the view. It was certainly an excellent picnic spot: gently rolling hills, with a field of lavender right before him filling the air with its sweet scent. A low humming of bees filled the air.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said. He had spread out the blanket, and now kicked off his shoes and crawled across it to open the hamper. “Oh, _pâté,_ look. And there’s tapenade and bread and chèvre and fruit…”

John, feeling better after his bit of a rest, toed off his own shoes and sat on the blanket to peer into the hamper. There were little insulated compartments in the corners, the first of which turned out to hold a bottle of cold rosé and the second two wine glasses. Fortunately, the other two held bottles of water. Excellent. He took out a bottle and gulped thirstily before handing it to Sherlock and pulling out the wine. 

They ate and drank in a companionable silence, enjoying the quiet and the view. On the main road they had passed other tourist and a number of cyclists, but in the secluded little grove John heard no sound but the gentle drone of the bees.

“Okay,” John said finally, sitting up and putting the remains of the food back into the hamper where it could stay cool. “What are we actually doing here? It’s beautiful, it’s peaceful…normally you’d be pulling the bark off the trees by now, you’d be so bored.”

Sherlock looked insulted. “I’m enjoying a romantic picnic with my partner.”

“Enjoying my arse, you never…wait a minute.” John narrowed his eyes. “Romantic? Seriously? Since when do you go in for romantic?”

“I go in for romantic all the time!”

“You go in for _sex_ all the time, when you’ve not got a case on. There’s a difference.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Romance is a social construct around a biological—“

“Yeah, okay, spare me thy honeyed words, Romeo. I know you’ve got an ulterior motive here, care to fill me in?”

Sherlock leaned back on his elbows, all languid elegance. His shirt had somehow become undone another button and hung temptingly loose on one shoulder. “Well. There’s a bit of a backstory.”

“No rush,” John said. He slid their plates into the hamper and took a drink from his nearly-empty glass. “We’ve all afternoon.”

Sherlock blinked at him slowly, molten in the heat. “When I was young, my family rented a house in Provence. It was the summer holidays. I can’t remember how old I was—I was definitely at school, but I think Mycroft had finished at Cambridge that year, so perhaps fourteen. It was very hot, like this. I had a bicycle and every day I would pack a snack and ride off to explore.

“Many of the fields were planted with lavender, and those were my favorites because I liked to watch the bees, but there was a large hayfield near our house and for a few days there were men working there cutting the hay. They had their shirts off and they were very muscular, very tanned. They seemed far more attractive than workingmen in England—probably because they were speaking French—and I found myself thinking about them quite a bit, and before long I dreamt about them—“

“I hope you weren’t sharing a room with Mycroft.”

“Oh, I’m sure he knew anyway. At any rate I eventually worked up a full-blown fantasy and masturbated to it for years. I’d completely forgotten until we came here and now it’s brought it all back.”

“And since I’m very muscular, if not very tanned, and can easily take my shirt off, you were thinking you’d like the opportunity to indulge.”

Sherlock grinned, not in the least abashed. “Something like that. Our host promised me that no one would be working in this field today, so we should be completely undisturbed.”

John pulled the bottle of rosé out of its cooler, refilled his glass, and took a drink. He offered some to Sherlock, who waved it off. “I think I can manage that. As long as we don’t have to spend too much time starkers; I don’t fancy going home with a sunburnt arse.”

Sherlock’s eyes had already darkened. “But you tan so beautifully.”

“Well,” John said, taking another sip, “I don’t mind browning myself just a bit.” He set down his glass and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Shall I go ahead and get my nice sweaty chest on display, or should I wait?”

“You can take it off.” Sherlock’s stare on John was hot and hungry. He was still lounged back on his elbows, soft lips parted, long throat lightly sheened with sweat where it rose from the open collar of his white linen shirt. He looked _edible._

“Okay.” John dropped the shirt on the grass and stretched out next to Sherlock, propping himself on his own elbow. “So tell me this fantasy.”

“I’m on my bike.” Sherlock dropped his head back a little and closed his eyes, his deep voice flowing slow and thick as honey in John’s ears. “I’m not wearing shorts though. It was usually my school uniform, immaculately pressed and clean, although I suppose this outfit would do as well. I ride to where the men are taking a break, sitting in the shadow of the hay barn. They’re having a drink, and I’m thirsty, so I ask for a drink of water.”

“And all their eyes are on you, aren’t they?” John asked, his own voice a husky rumble. “Pretty little schoolboy, all buttoned up and tidy. Do they give you the water, or do they give you some of this?” He dipped two fingers into his wine and held them over Sherlock’s mouth, dripping **rose** , and Sherlock’s tongue came out as delicately as a cat’s. Its unexpected heat caused an answering flare low in John’s groin.

Sherlock closed his mouth around John’s fingers and sucked lightly. “They give me the wine. I’m already hot, a little dehydrated, and now I’m a bit tipsy. They’re so close, I can smell their sweat, and I get hard. They see it through my trousers.”

John reached out one finger and just barely stroked the outline of Sherlock’s erection through the linen trousers. “And do they offer to help you out with that?”

Sherlock’s back arched and his head dropped back, mouth falling open. “They…they laugh. They make jokes about how much I want it, how desperate I must be for a real man, like them, not a silly English schoolboy. And I say I do want it. That I’ve never been with a man. That I want to see what it’s like.”

“And they say they’ll show you, do they?” John brushed his fingers down Sherlock’s length again, with just a hint of pressure this time. A faint flush was rising in Sherlock’s throat.

“They say they’ll ruin me for anyone else. They say they’ll spread me out and put their huge cocks in me and make me come and it will be so good I’ll beg for more.” Sherlock’s chest was definitely heaving now. “It sounds better in French,” he added, a touch defensively.

“And then they take you into the hay barn, don’t they?” John asked. He took a final swallow of wine, set his class down, and sat up. “They take you up in the hayloft and there’s a blanket all spread out, and they tell you to lie down on it.” He straddled Sherlock’s hips and reached for the top button of his shirt. “And then they take off those nice clean clothes. They’re just a little rough, not so much as to ruin anything, but so everyone will know you’ve been letting strange men fuck you in a hayloft when you get home.” He unbuttoned another button. Sherlock moaned, arching his back a little to push up into John.  “But under all those buttons and those fussy clothes you’re gorgeous, and they see it as they take your shirt off, and you can hear it in their voices: they’re the ones gagging for it now. They want you. Beautiful, untouched…”he pushed the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s chest, thumbing at his nipples. Sherlock shuddered. He pulled his arms out of his sleeves, tossed the shirt aside, and lay back on the blanket. Dust motes danced over him in the hot still air and the smell of lavender filled John’s nose. He could almost see it: the golden straw, shafts of sunlight through the window, Sherlock’s bare sweaty chest. Strange hands on his body.

“Except things are a little different this time,” John said. He knelt up and moved back a bit to get at Sherlock’s trousers. “Because the foreman of the farmhands is there, and he may be shorter than the others, but he’s still the boss. His name is Jean. And he tells the others: touch him all you want, use his mouth all you want, but I’m the only one who gets to fuck him, and I’m the one who makes him come.”

“Oh _yes,_ ” gasped Sherlock. He was biting his lip, and now he reached up and tangled both hands in his hair, breathing hard. John got his trousers opened, hooked his fingers in the sweaty waistband of Sherlock’s pants, and pulled everything off. He made short work of his own trousers, hoping devoutly that the hotelier was right about the field being deserted, and knelt next to Sherlock.

“Then what?’

“Then they touch me,” Sherlock said. His eyes were still closed, and he reached to run his fingers over his own chest. He spread his legs wide and fondled his cock. “They tell me what a little slut I am, how much I want their cocks, that they’re going to make me come screaming.”

“Keep doing that.” John moved up by Sherlock’s head, taking his own cock in hand and giving it a few long tugs. “Yeah, just like that, they’re getting you warmed up. Now pinch your nipples, that’s right. They’re all standing around you, you’re, er, there’s a bunch of bales of hay piled up that make a sort of platform and you’re on it, all spread out for them. They’ve all got their shirts off, like you said, and their trousers open and they’ve all got their pricks out and they’re huge, they’re all red and swollen and you’ve never seen anything like that before, have you?”

Sherlock shook his head. He was very flushed, one hand at his nipple and the other between his legs, twisting and panting. John licked his lips. “You want them, don’t you? Look how you’re spreading your legs.”

Sherlock nodded frantically and John was struck by a problematic thought. “Ah, Sherlock, did you by any chance think to bring any…”

“In the pocket of my trousers,” Sherlock gasped. “Give it to me, I want to get myself ready so you can keep doing that.”

John assumed Sherlock’s youthful fantasies had skipped past the tedious matters of lube and preparation and novice discomfort—presumably some massively-endowed Gallic laborer had simply slammed home his dick and produced an explosive orgasm—but this was a reasonable compromise.  “Yeah, but first…” he rubbed his thumb along Sherlock’s lower lip and Sherlock’s mouth fell open, and John slipped his thumb in. Sherlock closed his lips around the thumb and sucked, flicking his tongue against the pad in a way that sent little sparks straight to John’s cock.

“Suck it, schoolboy. Show us what that mouth is good for,” John growled, and Sherlock moaned around his thumb. John pulled his hand free, reached down, and spread Sherlock wide enough to press the tip of his thumb in. His knuckles ground against Sherlock’s perineum and Sherlock flung his arms wide, wriggling to try to push himself farther down.

“Oh no, not yet,” John said sternly. “That’s just a taste of what you’ll be getting. Remember, I’m the only one allowed to make you come, but not until after everyone else has gotten their fun with you. They’ve got their hands on you right now, they’re spreading you out, touching you, holding you down.”

Sherlock sucked in air and ran his hands up his chest again and back down to his legs, pulling his own thighs wide apart. John pulled out his thumb, retrieved the lube, and generously drizzled Sherlock’s fingers.  Then he knelt back up by Sherlock’s head again.

“How’s it feeling, schoolboy?”

“Oh God, it’s so good,” Sherlock gasped. “They’re all touching me, they’re so aroused now. One of them is grinding up behind the other, he’s rubbing his cock up in the first one’s arse and I can hear him, he’s getting close, and the first one is jerking himself off over my mouth, he’s going to come on my face, and then another grabs my hair and shoves my mouth onto his cock—“

John did just that and Sherlock almost choked, so caught up in his own fantasy he didn’t realize what was going on until John’s cock was halfway down his throat. “Look at you, you little slut,” John said breathlessly. “Not so prim and proper now, are you? Greedy little cocksucker, just begging for it.” He closed his hand gently over Sherlock’s throat, arousal surging further at the feel of the muscles spasming around John’s prick. Sherlock’s suction was sloppy and uncoordinated, although that was partly due to the fact that he was desperately trying to fuck himself on his own fingers at the same time.

John pulled out, dragging the head of his cock across Sherlock’s cheek and leaving a streak of saliva. “Now the first one’s come on your face and you’re trying to lick it off, aren’t you, even though another’s just come down your mouth, but now a third wants his turn,” and he shoved into Sherlock’s mouth again. “But another’s wanking over your face now too and you’re so greedy, so gagging for it, you want more, don’t you,” and he pushed three fingers in next to his cock. Christ, there was no way that should be so hot, he’d certainly never had fantasies about sharing Sherlock’s mouth before, but, _fuck--_ he’d better pull out quick. “So you suck them both,” John panted, smearing his wet cock over Sherlock’s face again, “and they come, all over your face and your mouth…”

“And the one who was grinding on the other,” Sherlock said, licking at his lips as though tasting the phantom semen, “he’s fucking him now, I can hear it, they’re so sweaty they’re sticking together, slap-slap-slap, and I want it, _I want it,_ but they’re all holding me down and smearing me with their come and I, I…”

“Jesus,” John gasped, hoping Sherlock had got himself good and ready because there was no holding back now. He pushed Sherlock’s legs up to his chest, gripped him by the backs of the thighs, and sank in. “Oh _fuck_.”

Sherlock had his arms thrown wide again, clutching at the blanket as John plowed into him. “They’re all holding me, they’re holding me pinned for you to fuck me, I can’t move, I can’t…”

“That’s right,” John managed between thrusts. “Because I’m the one who decides when you get to come. And even though my cock is the biggest and the hardest and the best you’ve ever felt, you can’t come yet, not until I finish fucking every inch of your pretty little schoolboy arse. And I’m going to go for hours. And the others are going to be getting ready for another go because I can outlast any of them, and in a minute they’re going to be wanting your mouth again…” he squeezed at his own bollocks, hard, to stave off the impending orgasm; he could see it so vividly, Sherlock spread out on the hay, hands on his chest and pulling his legs back and grabbing at his hair while John shoved into his tight hot body over and over.

Sherlock whimpered, open-mouthed and desperate and shining with sweat. “Please, Jean, _s’il vous plait,_ please…”

That did it. John, knowing he wasn’t going to last but a few more seconds, swung Sherlock’s right leg over his shoulder, reached down with his left hand, and gripped Sherlock hard as he pushed forward. Sherlock jerked and he cried out, “Oh God yes, yes, John, oh _God”_ and his whole body jackknifed convulsively as he came as hard as John had ever seen him. John pictured the others, moaning as Sherlock moaned, jerking themselves harder at the sight of John fucking him to orgasm, and he plunged in as hard as he could, over and over, visualizing them coming all over Sherlock’s spattered chest as John filled him and claimed him for his own.

When he was finally wrung dry John collapsed over Sherlock, heart thudding in his ears. He could feel Sherlock’s sweaty torso heaving beneath him as he tried to catch his breath. Now that they’d finished, being this close together was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot and sticky, so John pushed himself up and pulled out. Sherlock groaned.

“Ugh, I’m going to feel that on the walk back.”

John looked over at his red and swollen entrance a little guiltily. “Here, hold on.” He dug in the hamper and pulled out the still-cold bottle of rosé, which he pressed to Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock yelped, but when John made to pull the bottle away Sherlock grabbed it back.

“No, leave it there, it feels good.”

John flopped back down on the blanket and lay for a moment letting the slight breeze cool him. He was feeling extremely sluggish, and after a desultory attempt at wiping himself off gave up and just lay watching the pattern of the silvery leaves against the brilliance of the sky.

“That’s quite a story,” he said after a while. “I can see how you’d spend years getting off to it. Never knew you had an orgy kink though.”

“Only in fantasy; don’t get your hopes up,” Sherlock drawled. A minute later he said, far less lazily, “But you do, don’t you.”

“Hmmm?”

“No.” Sherlock sounded wide awake now, clearly intent on ferreting out this fascinating new nugget. “You weren’t interesting in having sex with multiple people, you were interested in watching them having—no, that’s not it either--ah. It’s a sort of reverse voyeurism, you get off on the idea of other people watching _you._ Interesting, implies a very high degree of self-confidence.” John grinned up at the sky and Sherlock said in a deep velvety voice that John knew perfectly well he employed on purpose: “Tell me, John. Just what fantasy did _you_ use to get off, back when you were fourteen?”

“Nope,” John said cheerfully. “That’s a story for another time.”

“But John,” Sherlock wheedled. “It’s making me so aroused to think about, look.”

John looked over. Sherlock was still splayed flat on his back, knees bent and feet planted, the wine bottle he was holding pressed to his arse sticking straight up between his legs like a stubby little hard-on. He couldn’t help laughing. “You are ridiculous,” he said. “And you’d better give me that so I can wipe it off. Better wipe yourself off whilst you’re about it or you’re going to feel that walking back as well.”

Sherlock pouted, but he sat up and handed back the bottle. “I’m thinking long cool shower, a kip, nice dinner at that place we heard about with winery,” John said dreamily, looking around for the napkins.

“And then you’ll tell me about your fantasy.”

“Oh no.” John shook his head adamantly. “You’ll just have to be patient for that. It needs the right time. Like this was for you to tell me yours.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock was looking determined, which never boded well for John. “We’ll see about that.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you love a good gangbang fantasy (and who doesn't?) check out Vulgarweed's excellent [ "Belt-Fed Cock".](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3319031)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Picnic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226691) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)
  * [[Podfic] The 'What Did You Think About?' series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5662957) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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